


Prose and Cons

by theyseemerollins



Series: Bibliophiles [3]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M, Porn With Plot, a lot more plot than the others, because i am a biased bitch, i'm trash, it says gifted to mammothamaryllis but it's actually gifted to myself, that's why this one is like thirty pages, this isn't what i intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 17:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18526474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyseemerollins/pseuds/theyseemerollins
Summary: As the owner of a small town used bookstore you have to deal with a lot.  An annoying rival book collector gunning for your prized book, a fear of losing the store to a lack of funds, an outrageous coworker you simultaneously want to fire and ravage all over the store...and now a wily thief that's been stealing rare and beautiful books around the country.  Miz you can handle, the store you know like the back of your hand, and Seth...But now the thief has bested even Miz's top-notch security, and your bookstore, while modest, houses something you know he won't be able to pass up.  Even so you can't help but be interested in the devious bandit....





	Prose and Cons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MammothAmaryllis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MammothAmaryllis/gifts).



> Third and final Bibliophiles installment. Seth's is out of control and stupidly long and I should apologize but apparently I'm a biased bitch. With a lot of pent up rage type feelings when it comes to him and his snarky character type. So. Enjoy that. Miz, Maryse, Fandango, and Tyler Breeze make appearances, and you should know that I love them all.

The bell rang above the door of the shop, and you tore your eyes away from the computer screen to greet the incoming customers.  Two women about your age returned the greeting, asked for the self-help area of the store, and disappeared in a flutter of scarves and giggles.

You turned your attention back to the screen, brow creasing as you tapped impatiently at the scroll bar.

Another theft in the book community.  This time just a state away.  The M.O., such as the police could figure, was much the same as the thefts that came before.  That was to say, there was little to no information to be gleaned. 

Over the past year, eight significant heists had occurred in the rare book world.  From independent corner bookstores to vast, private collections squirreled away in mansions; no unusual piece of literature had been safe from the shadowy burglar. 

You wrinkled your nose, privately conceding that this person or persons was no run of the mill burglar, but an artist and a connoisseur through and through.  He, she, or they obviously had done their research on what constituted a rare and valuable book, and had tricked numerous complicated and state-of-the-art security systems across the country.  And never once left any trace behind.

You hummed in annoyance as you read the latest article.  The recent theft had happened to someone you knew personally, if not gladly.  Mike Mizanin had been a thorn in your side for as long as you had lived on the West Coast.  You two had dogged each other at auctions, estate sales, and library closures; fervently outbidding (always him), outsmarting (always you), and outwrestling ( _that_ had been a scene) each other for the next addition to your collections.  The book that had been stolen out from under his smug nose had been his latest acquisition, one he had bribed the owner into selling to him despite your better claim to it.  You scrutinized the photo included in the article, knowing your pupils were probably blowing wide as you gazed at the complete first edition set of Austen. 

That jackass didn’t deserve such lovely things.  And despite your burning hatred for this wily thief making off with such treasures, you weren’t all that sad to see a man like Miz dealt such a blow.  Actually, any time a book was stolen from a private collection, you muttered a tiny cheer.  Books were as good as any museum piece in your opinion, and vanishing into private libraries only to be seen and drooled over by rich snobs pissed you off like little else could.  But when the thief stole from stores that were essentially mom-and-pop shops…

A paper coffee cup slid across the counter into your peripherals, distracting you from your internal rant.  You side-eyed it, one brow raised archly.  You cursed yourself for not hearing the bell warn you of his approach.

“Is that an apology for yesterday?”  You asked by way of greeting, eyes fixed firmly on your computer screen.

A raspy chuckle had your hackles rising, along with the waspish retort on your tongue, but he cleared his throat and cut you off.

“Call it what you want.  I call it a money trap.”

You flashed him a glare, but he was already retreating to the break room around the corner.  You snorted and glanced back at the Starbucks cup.  Rolling your eyes, you pulled it toward you and took a sip.  What the overpriced coffee business considered pumpkin filled your taste-buds, and the latte warmed you considerably against the usual chill of the store.  You tried not to look too pleased, even though he was still in the break room and couldn’t see your reaction.  Your nose wrinkled and you put the cup down. 

You aided a father hauling rambunctious twins locate the children’s section (mercifully at the rear of the store), and pulled up one final article regarding Miz’s ordeal.  You didn’t hear Seth come up behind you.

“He’s a fucking tool.”

You leapt about a foot in the air and spun around on your stool, thankful the guy and his kids were too far away to hear.  Seth grinned at you.   “Sorry.”  The grin broadened.  “That’s two apologies in one day if we’re counting the drink.”

“I don’t know if _we_ are,” you growled.  You jabbed a finger at the screen.  “Miz is only like fifty miles down the coast.”  You didn’t acknowledge Seth’s accurate summation of your rival.

Seth regarded you, head tilted.  “I don’t think you have to worry about the book crook.”

You winced at your coworker’s pet name for the mysterious figure.  He refused to think of the person or group as anything special, and it rankled you.  “This person is way beyond the label of petty crook, Rollins.”

Too late did you hear the insinuation in his statement.  You spun back around on the stool and this time jabbed him in the chest.

“Are you saying my store isn’t worth hitting?”

“Oh my God, why do you twist everything I say?”

“You don’t think my store is worth hitting!”

Seth ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing in exasperation.  “Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?  You own a normal independent used bookstore.  With normal books.  The only exception being…”

Here he was interrupted by the approach of the harassed father.  You turned on the charm once more, stamping down your irritation at Seth’s patronizing tone.  Once the man had thanked you profusely, paid, and bundled the kids out of the store, you finished Seth’s thought.

“That book is probably worth more than all the books in this store combined, Rollins.  I’m not having it stolen from me.”

Seth put his hands up in surrender.  “All I was trying to say was that very few people know about that book’s existence.  You don’t exactly advertise it.”

His tone suggested what he thought about your reticence to openly flaunt the book to the purchasing world.  All you had by way of alerting collectors of the possibility of a quality find were signs in the store and on your website stating: **Rare** **books available.  Serious inquiries only.**

The fact that you had only one such book was of no consequence to you.  Not many people in this town inquired about much, seriously or otherwise, aside from the irregular grad student.  And they only came for the cheap finds, as expected.

“I don’t understand why you just don’t keep it for yourself,” Seth continued as he began putting out extra bookmarks on the counter.  “I know you don’t want to sell it to anyone.”

“I do, too,” you snapped.  You took a chug of the latte and burned your tongue.  “I’m waiting for the right person to want it.”

Seth snorted.  “Mr. Right for a _book_ ,” he muttered.  “If you really wanted to sell it, you’d have given into Miz eons ago.”

“No,” you asserted.  “Not him.  Ever.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a fucking tool.”

That earned you a laugh and proffered hand.  You smiled reluctantly and gave Seth his high five.

“Alright, boss,” he rubbed his hands together enthusiastically.  “What you got for me?”

You smiled sweetly at him.  “The bathroom needs attending.”

His expression was better than any pumpkin-flavored truce could ever be.

 

With Seth firmly up to his elbows in the toilet, you took a turn around the store.  It was a slow day for a Saturday.  The weather was grim; threatening what was bound to be sleet.  The other shops along the college town road were equally barren.  Students were no doubt holing up for looming finals, anyway, and despite the normal popularity of your store, it wasn’t a hot spot for studying.  You refused to attach a café because you couldn’t trust the layperson with hot liquids around your books.

You sighed quietly as you organized a shelf here and there, partly wishing you could simply close up.  The two young women were still giggling softly in the self-help section, though now you rather thought they were busily assessing your coworker.  You’d seen them eyeing the two of you over the shelves earlier.  You smirked to yourself wondering how they’d react to seeing him unclog a toilet.  It quickly turned to a scowl, however, when you recalled the long sleeves he was wearing, and how they’d be rolled up for the job.

It was his fault, entirely, the way women ogled him.  Seth worked with books by day and did CrossFit by night, and apparently parkoured his way through life in between.  The result was only to be expected.  The man was a study in physicality and intelligence.  Art students were constantly asking him to model, to which he always, always agreed— _The money’s great!_ —and the English students were always picking his brain on the merits of any variety of authors and genres— _To be perfectly candid, I’ve always found the ‘classics’ to be intrinsically pretentious._

It was exhausting, listening to him and his groupies stage debates over your precious books.  You took great offense to almost all he said, hating when you occasionally agreed with him.  Hating his arrogant smile when he _knew_ you agreed with him…

 _So why did you hire him?_ You asked yourself for the umpteenth time.

Seth had asked you that question, too, not four days after you’d done so.  You told him it was because he was qualified and one of the only candidates who seemed to know how to treat the old books properly, having worked under a conservator in the Midwest before moving.

Which was all perfectly, appropriately true.

Your head snapped around when you heard the women on the other side of the shop giggle louder than before.  You then heard Seth’s low voice chime in amongst the twittering.  Your face reddened and you shoved a stack of books aside with more hostility than they deserved.

What was inappropriately true of your reasons for hiring Seth Rollins was that you’d wanted him as soon as he walked through your door six months ago. 

The first week of his employment had gone well as far as the books were concerned.  He knew what he was doing, needed little training on spotting the prize books, and charmed the pants off any customer who came his way.  Figuratively, of course, though you sometimes wondered…

And you both got along just fine as he settled in.  Which was good for business, but bad for your increasing attraction to him.  It was hard working in close proximity to someone who you imagined could bench press you without breaking a sweat.

And then his true colors started emerging.

The man was an ass.  Everything he said and did got under your skin until you began wanting to strangle him.  You fought with him nearly twice a day about the proper ways to do things in your bookstore.  His grating, self-satisfied laugh trailed your around the shop.  He called you pet names that he had to know made your blood boil.

And yet with all the seething rage tingling beneath your skin whenever you so much as looked at him, you still wanted to get in his tauntingly tight skinny jeans, still wanted to know just how powerful those shoulders and arms really were, and god oh god were you such a fucking masochist.

You gave yourself a shake and blinked, rubbing your eyes.  Your wrathful stalk around the shop had inevitably brought you to your holiest of holies.  The room where you went to get away from life.  The place you found more peace in than your own home.

It was a tiny room near the back of the shop proper.  A single podium stood at the center of the room, encased in a temperature controlled housing unit.  You approached reverently; smiling at the book nestled inside, opened to its frontispiece and title page. 

You’d found this copy of _The Great Gatsby_ at a flea market of all places.  It was a first edition, which made it special enough, but what set your heart racing, what had the likes of Miz breathing down your neck nearly once a month was not that, but the inscription written beneath the title.

_Sincerely, F. Scott Fitzgerald_

That was it.  No messages, no dedications.  But it struck a nerve in you that you couldn’t quite define.  It was as though he’d signed a personal letter to whoever ended up owning this _Gatsby_.  And that had been you.  The original owner was a skeptic, understandably, but he did not have your knowledge.  Still, the three dollar price sticker on it ate at your heart and your conscience. 

You’d ended up piling a few more old books into the bag you’d brought with you and given him fifty bucks for the lot, unwilling to cheat him so terribly, yet unable to arouse suspicion that you were doing exactly that.

And now you stared at the $18,000 price card enclosed with the tome—cosigned by another professional in the field—knowing that Seth was once again the better judge, and that you’d probably never see that money.  Miz had offered $24,000 the last time he had stormed your shop, and the price was only bound to increase the more vexed he became.

You would not sell to Miz because he only wanted to squirrel it away and show it to his other rich A-list friends.  And you…

You cherished _Gatsby_.

“It still gives me the shivers,” Seth murmured as he closed the door behind him.  He stopped next to you and looked down at the book, holding himself as one would at an altar.

You nodded in agreement.  Fitzgerald was one of the only authors you and he agreed on, regardless of a multi-grand price tag. 

“Did those girls get all the discounted advice they could handle?”

Seth shot you a conspiratorial look.  “A few books between them.  I turned the sign over when they left.  Don’t expect anyone else today.”

You weren’t even irritated by his presumption.  You’d been planning on closing as soon as the girls left, and to be honest, you just wanted to get the security up and going.  The thief still shadowed the back of your mind.  You were going to have to call Miz tomorrow for details.  You hoped what little you had in common would urge him to tell you what had happened so you could take steps to avoid the thief.  Seth was right about not many people knowing of your prize, but people talked.

“Want me to set the alarms?”

You turned and studied your coworker.  You’d hired him for his qualifications and for your own selfish reasons to be sure, but now that the threat of intrusion loomed uncomfortably close, you had to admit that perhaps you’d hired him for the sheer relief of his presence.  The thief had been prowling the country for a couple months when Seth had answered your ad.  And while you despised admitting it to yourself—because you could bet your ass you’d never admit it to him—Seth made you feel safe.  Made you feel that the books were safe.  Hell, he’d probably save them before you in a fire, and you couldn’t fault him.  You’d do the same.

“You need a drink, sweetheart?  You’re looking a little hot under the collar.”

You refocused.  “What?”

Seth smirked at you.  “I said you were looking a little thirsty.”

His tiny lilt on the word ‘thirsty’ made your body hum with excitement and outrage.

“I was thinking that you should probably give _Gatsby_ a cleaning tomorrow,” you brushed past him and went back out into the store.  He followed you, chuckling all the while.

“Yes, ma’am.  Need anything else before I go?  Gotta hit the gym.”

You rolled your eyes, not even deigning to respond since he was already half into his coat. 

“No?  Alright.  I’ll see you tomorrow then, babe.  First thing.”  The bell pealed, and he was gone into the slush.

You stared at the swinging sign.

“Fucker.” 

See?  You had pet names for him, too.

 

Seth’s punishment in cleaning _Gatsby_ wasn’t really that.  He enjoyed the work, and you appreciated that it would keep him out of your hair and sight for several hours.  And yet your clever ideas involving Seth always seemed to backfire on you, masochist that you were, so the grueling task he undertook monthly ended up only punishing you.

It was a sweet sort of torture.  You weren’t quite sure when you discovered this particular kink of yours.  Perhaps it was just the overall view of a hot guy treating a book with a lover’s touch that got you all kinds of flustered.  You inwardly dared any bibliophile not to be enthralled. 

But, no.  Your fascination with Seth’s process boiled down to one element in particular; one which brought a flush of heat to your face and neck whenever you so much as thought about it.

The Gloves.

Even now at the front desk, you were practically sweating at knowing he was back there, hands enveloped in soft, black leather, carefully exercising the book’s spine so it wouldn’t stiffen from age, treating the cover with gentle oils to keep it clean.

You’d watched Seth perform this task for the first three months he worked for you.  Originally, you’d been intrigued by the method, never having seen it done up close.  That and you had had a habit of looking over his shoulder in the early days, paranoid he’d ruin something.  It had made him nervous, and the arguments had you finally taking a step back.  Seth tended to white knuckle tasks when he was pissed at you, and you’d been afraid the tension might make him careless.  Once you’d relaxed, your mind had time to wander.

And wander it did.

Seth had narrated the process for you once he realized you weren’t going to leave him alone with _Gatsby_ while he kept it conserved.  You listened attentively; so eager to learn something new that you remained ignorant of his satisfied air.  The combination of his voice, which quickly lost its condescension to his evident passion for the task, and the supple gloves running delicately over the spine and pages of the book soon had you squirming in your seat. 

He’d noticed, much to your mortification.  Cocking a brow at you, he’d asked, “You gotta pee or something?”

You left him to it nowadays.

Your reluctance to go anywhere near the room rarely kept you from doing so, and it certainly didn’t keep you from thinking awful things.  Like some sex-starved pervert.  Things like those fingers trailing up your sides, warm leather ghosting over your neck, thumb stroking your pulse.  Things like those hands gripping your waist as you straddle him, digging your nails into his shoulders as you arch against him, fighting to keep a whimper locked in your throat.  You, pulling his hair, grinning when he gasps in pleasure…

You groaned and put your head on the desk, threading your fingers into your hair.  You _were_ a sex-starved pervert.  And if you had any sort of nerve in your body, you’d close the shop, go into that back room, and (after carefully stowing _Gatsby_ away, of course) demand that Seth exercise _your_ spine…

The bell ringing violently was as effective as an ice bath.  The cause of the commotion would ensure you wouldn’t be horny for at least a week.

Mike Mizanin and his wife, Maryse, stood in the entryway of your bookstore as if they were royalty gracing the peasantry.  Maryse, you could accede.  Even with the personality of a witch, she was a French goddess incarnate, bedecked in lavish furs and tasteful jewelry.  Her husband, however, was solid douche, through and through.

“What do you want, Miz?”  You asked acerbically, having no capacity to feign politeness.  You smoothed down your hair as best you could, once again cowed by Maryse’s effortless perfection.

Miz strode into the room and removed his sunglasses (an outrageously huge, white pair that he had no need of, cloudy as it was) and cast a critical eye over your shelves, floors, and person.  You clenched your hands into fists behind the counter.  _Dick._  

He wasted no time in making your bad mood worse.

“To save you from financial ruin, obviously.”  He folded his sunglasses carefully and slid them into his jacket pocket.  “Why else do I come to this… _establishment_?”

You took a deep breath, determined not to scream at him, knowing the probable consequences of doing so, and hating yourself for bottling it up. 

“I’m not selling it to you, Miz.”

He grinned patiently at you, and you nearly gulped.  The fact that he wasn’t immediately blustering angrily set your teeth on edge.

“I figured you’d say that, darling.”  His voice dripped with honey coated disdain.  He was at the desk now, looking as though he was the proprietor and you the half-wit customer making inquiries.  “I’m here to make you see reason.”

While you gaped at him, Miz reached into another jacket pocket and removed a piece of paper.  You knew instantly what it was by its shape and size, and put your hand up to halt his movement, but the bastard simply placed it in your palm.  Your fingers closed on it instinctively, your eyes slipping to the total on the check on their own accord.

They popped wide.

“Thirty thousand?” You squeaked weakly.

“To be transferred to your account as soon as you take that baby to the bank,” he said smugly.  “No waiting, no questions.  I’ve spoken with my bank and lawyers.  The transaction will be smooth as butter.”

Your heart was pounding and you looked from the check, to Miz, to Maryse, who’d come to stand just behind her husband.  She was looking up at him with such pride; as though he was bestowing charity unto the downtrodden.  This helped stiffen your resolve.

“You think I’d sell _Gatsby_ to someone who just got robbed of their most prized books?”

That did it.  The Miz you knew and despised appeared as the smarmy expression dropped off his face with a nearly audible thud.  His eyes narrowed icily, and Maryse mirrored his rage.

He thrust a finger in your direction.  “That was a fluke in my security that has never failed once, and will never fail again, don’t you presume to know how my personal business works.  I’ve got more invested in my safes and vaults than you have in your entire, pathetic life, do you understand?  The guards have been fired and new ones hired.  That son of bitch got damn lucky when he took the Austens from me.”

Miz finally stopped to take a breath, shrugging off Maryse’s comforting hand.   He closed his eyes for a second.  When they reopened, he forced a smile.  “Come on.  From one book lover to another.  You know that if that miscreant got through my money he’ll get through your,” Miz flicked his eyes around the cramped room, “single bolt front door.”

You lay the check gently on the desk between you.  Your voice shook.  “I’ve told you time and again that the security of this building is quality.  You know full well that it used to be a bank, and as such, has all the measures a bank takes to deter thieves.”  You voice was becoming more shrill, your anger peaking as the two A-list assholes pinned you with their haughty stares.  “I’ve also told you hundreds of times that I’ve got friends on the local police force that watch my store for me when I ask.  And frankly, I’d rather have _Gatsby_ stolen from my cold, dead hands, than ever give him to you.”

You were nearly heaving with the effort to reign yourself in.  Miz seemed about to make another snide remark, and you swore you’d haul ass over the desk, but his eyes slid past you and he straightened, clearing his throat.

“Is there a problem here, Mizanin?”

You fingers clenched, scratching your nails over the wood of the desk, but you refused to turn and look at Seth where he’d emerged from the back room.  You could feel his eyes jumping between your tense shoulder blades and Miz’s imperious face.  Miz spoke first.

“I’m trying to get your employer to see reason.  She’s stubborn and won’t take the Fitzgerald’s safety seriously.  Nor will she take her own safety into consideration.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Seth demanded.  You glanced over your shoulder at him questioningly.

“I mean what if the thief makes his way here and she idiotically tries to stop him?  She has no trained staff to deal with such confrontation.  She could get hurt.”

He directed a look at you and you scoffed.  “The thief hasn’t done anything violent all year, Miz.  He’s got his game down to an art form.  No one’s even seen him, for Christ’s sake.  He might not even be a he!”

Miz surprised you by chuckling.  He turned and looked at his wife, who mimicked his amused laughter.  He turned back to you, his tone taking on a lurid note.

“How adorable.  You’re romanticizing the bastard.  A dangerous game to play.  I think you’re wishing he’ll come in here and make an attempt.  You want a run in with him.  You want…”

Miz staggered back as Seth lunged past you, attempting to grab onto the rat’s collar.  Miz yanked Maryse in front of him and Seth ground to a halt, his body canting to the side so as to partially obscure Miz from your vision.  You snorted and stepped to the side so you could see everything.  Seth threw a glare at you, but stayed still, body tight with anticipation.

Miz was backing slowly to the front of the store, Maryse poised before him.  She had been cursing in rapid French at you and Seth, but fell into a seething silence as Miz reached the front door.

“Just think about my offer, will you?  I’ll leave the check as a marker of good faith.”  The door slammed shut and the two were gone into the frigid night.

As Seth stalked to the door and snapped the closed sign into place, you looked down at the check.  _Good faith_ your ass.  Miz hadn’t dared trying to reclaim it because he was afraid Seth would snap him like a fucking twig.  Even so, the number stood out seductively on the slip of paper bearing Miz’s signature. 

What that little piece of paper could do for you and your business.

You weren’t prepared for what happened next as you burned a hole in the check with your gaze. 

Seth had reached the desk again.  You’d been only remotely aware that he’d approached.  You didn’t realize just how close he was until a gloved hand slid over yours and clasped your wrist gently.  “Are you okay?”

Your mouth went dry as you stared at his fingers, your hair rising all along your arm, a shiver starting at the base of your spine.  You wrenched your hand away, praying he hadn’t noticed your reaction.  He pulled his own hand back as though you’d burned him.  “Sorry,” he muttered.  He cleared his throat.  “You okay?”  He asked more brusquely. 

“Yeah,” you croaked, averting your face.  “Yes.”

You forced yourself to meet his eyes, surprised to see mixed emotions playing there.  He looked simultaneously embarrassed and frustrated.  “Just.  Thinking,” you added lamely.

“About the offer?  Really?”  He sounded skeptical, but in a way that suggested he was cynical of you accepting it rather than Miz staying true to it.  Which was directly contradictory to his earlier conviction that you should sell. 

You sighed in resigned aggravation.  “It’s a lot of money, Seth.  I never thought he’d pony up that much for it.  It was all a game before.  But look around,” you swept your arm before you, at the store.  “I’ll never be able to keep this place afloat in the long run.  It’s okay now, but what about a year from now?  Hell, what about a month from now?  I’ve been hopelessly naïve to think I can keep _Gatsby_ for myself.”

“But he got hit,” Seth pointed out.  “He could get hit again.  Especially if the public gets word of him buying it.  Which they will because he can’t keep his life out of the goddamn papers for more than a week.  He thinks every shit he takes is fucking front-page news.”

It hadn’t been meant to make you laugh, as bitterly as it had been uttered, but you did.  Loudly.  The hilarity burbled out of you uncontrollably, causing your eyes to stream with tears.  In your semi-hysteria, you reached out and grabbed Seth’s shoulder, leaning into him as your laughter shook you.  He started chuckling, too, wrapping an arm around your neck, and playfully tugging you closer.  You sobered quickly as you remembered the gloves on his hands, and the hard muscle beneath your cheek.  You slipped shyly away from him, and he let you go without a fuss.

“Do you want to grab a drink later?” He asked instead as you stowed the check into the register drawer.  You pulled the whole tray out and took it to the office.  Seth followed, waiting for an answer.  You tried to keep your voice neutral.

“Aren’t you going to the gym?”  You both stepped into the office and he leaned against the door frame as you put the money and check into the safe.

“Duh,” he grunted.  “That’s why I said later.” 

You sneered at him, and perched yourself on the large, old fashioned desk.  You’d insisted on keeping it after converting the old bank into your shop, loving its antiquity and compartments.  “Where?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t care.  Although there’s a place by my apartment that’s nice.  Quiet for a bar.  I’m not big on drinking, but they’ve got food and stuff.”

You regarded him.  “When?”

“How bout nine?”

You glanced at the clock above his head.  It was six now.  “Fine.”

“Great,” he beamed.  He pushed off from the wall and was suddenly very much in your space.  You repressed a flinch as he peeled the gloves from his hands and tossed them on the desk beside you.  You could feel the warmth of him, and smell the soap he’d used, and the faint smell of the book oils.  You were very, very conscious that you were about to do something stupid.

But then he was moving away and grabbing his coat from the hook.  He threw yours to you.  “I’ll text you the info around 8:30.  It won’t take you long to get to the bar from your place.”

You waved as he vanished, and waited until you heard the bell over the front door jangle, before groaning loudly.  You slid off the desk and pulled your coat on, stewing over the events of the day.  Your rolling eyes fell on the gloves on the desk.

You bit your lip as you reached out and fingered the leather.  It was still warm from Seth’s hands.  You flushed wickedly and dropped the offending garment.  Shoving your hands into your pockets for your keys, you locked the office door and double checked the back door and _Gatsby_.  Properly encased, as always.  At the front, you punched in the security code and left, locking up behind you. 

Once in your car, the reality of the evening ahead penetrated your thick skull.

You had a date with _Seth_.

 

Okay.  Perhaps “date” was too strong a word, you thought as you watched him chatting closely with some woman at the bar.  You sighed and began to make your way over.

It wasn’t as if you’d spent the last two and a half hours agonizing over what to wear and what to order and what to say just in case _he_ thought it was a date and you had to let him down gently.  No!  Not at all!  It wasn’t as if you’d felt a warm, enticing feeling in your belly when his text pinged on your phone about where to meet him.  Hardly!

And it’s not like either of you had said the word “date”.  It was drinks among coworkers after a hard day.  Nothing to get so keyed up over.

But you and he had never once gone anywhere together in a professional capacity, let alone a personal one.  This was entirely uncharted terrain you were navigating.

The woman was very pretty in a red, form-fitting sweater dress and black leggings.  She kept touching his arm.  He kept laughing.

Honestly he should have been less indifferent about the whole thing.  He should have been more specific.  _God, you could smell her perfume from here_.  You needed to calm the fuck down.  Why were you even here?  Even away from the bookstore he pissed you off.

By the time you reached Seth, you were practically boiling.  You smiled brightly.  “Hey!”

Seth, unaware of your true mood, greeted you excitedly, and made basic introductions.  You nodded politely at the girl, knowing full well neither of you cared in the least about remembering each other’s names.  The girl leaned close to Seth and murmured something to him before sauntering away to the pool tables.

Seth turned on his stool and gestured to the bartender.  “What’ll you have?” He asked you over the music.

Like Seth, you weren’t much of a drinker, but you were feeling frisky now.  “Rum and coke, please.”

Handing you the drink, he bent forward.  “Let’s find a booth.” 

You shivered as his breath tickled your ear, but he didn’t seem to notice.  He was already leading the way to a dim corner, away from the main clamor of the bar.  You followed, sipping stoutly on your drink.  By the time you were neatly ensconced in your seat, you were half done the rum and coke.

Seth noticed this and cocked an eyebrow at you.  You were thankful for the dim lighting while your face heated.  You put the glass down gingerly.  “I was thirsty.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t pursue the subject.  Instead, he leaned back against his seat and contemplated you. 

“What?” You demanded defensively.

“Relax.”

His soft voice caught you off guard.  You swallowed and reached forward to fidget with the straw of your cup.  Now that you were here, sitting across from him in an intimate setting, you were forced to wonder what you were really doing here.  Why had Seth asked you if you wanted to meet for drinks?  He’d never made any such offer before.  Not, at least, after you’d very loudly declined his invitation after his first day on the job.  You’d cited the inappropriateness of intermingling amongst coworkers and that you would not be going down that road, desperately trying to mask your true feelings.  He’d told you to pop a Xanax.

The following morning was the first time you’d made him clean the bathroom.

And now look where you were.  Intermingling.  With Seth.  You flicked your gaze back to him, instantly caught in his.  Deep brown eyes roved over your face, leaving you feeling like an open book.  Your skin flushed again.  You wanted so badly to say something; to distract him from pouring over you.  He was calculating.  Like he was skimming for the juicy bits.

Just as you were about to combust, he took a sip of his water and said, “I think Miz did it.”

There it was again.  Miz’s name dousing the fire threatening to engulf you.  Taken aback after your episode, you flopped back into your own seat, unaware that you’d been inching forward.

“What do you think he did?”

Seth propped his elbows on the table.  “I think he stole the Austen collection from himself.”

Your eyebrows rose, mind seizing on his reasoning.  “For the insurance.”

“Bingo,” Seth pointed at you. 

“As a theory it stands to reason,” you agreed slowly.  “He’s arrogant and manipulative enough to try using the thief’s notoriety to hide behind.”

A small smirk played at Seth’s lips.  You ran your tongue over your own and took another drink. 

“But?” Seth prompted, sounding annoyingly amused.

“But he’s too greedy,” you finished.  “He gets off on having the rarest, most sought after thing.  Money’s not an issue to him.  He’d much rather have the Austens.”

Seth nodded, but you could see the condescending reply poised on his lips, and braced yourself for an argument.  “He’d much rather have _Gatsby_.”

You blinked; straw halfway to your mouth.  You put the glass back down, a little harder than you meant.  You winced at the clang.  “You think the 30k is from the insurance money?”

Seth shrugged.  “You said yourself Miz likes to have the most noteworthy things.  And while a first edition set of Austen is impressive—not that _I’m_ a fan—nothing beats something like a signed _Gatsby._ ”

You couldn’t argue that logic, despite being a huge Austen fan yourself.  First editions were a book collector’s dream.  But signed first editions, from authors so bound in literature’s essence, were a book collector’s life’s pursuit.  Seth was hitting the nail on the head with his summation of Miz.  The cretin would do anything short of murder to get his hands on your book.  And that was giving Miz the benefit of the doubt.

And yet you just couldn’t believe Miz could pull off something of this caliber without letting something slip.  He was too proud of his collections and too proud of his own supposed genius.  Eventually he’d screw up, and even if the law simply gave him a slap on the wrist, he’d be finished in the book world. 

And there was another ever-present doubt poking at the back of your mind like a bad itch.

“This sort of insinuates our thief wasn’t involved at all.  Or that,” you visibly cringed, “Miz _is_ the thief.”

Seth snorted derisively.  “It insinuates nothing of the kind, don’t be stupid.  First of all, I don’t doubt there’s a crook out there making off with books, but to give Miz that credit is an insult to the work this dude has done.  I shouldn’t need to elaborate on all the ways Miz is not the thief.”

He eyed you vehemently until you nodded in acquiescence.  “Second of all, it’s possible Miz let the guy steal the Austens, knowing he could claim the insurance and come after _Gatsby_.  We’ve already established he wouldn’t blink twice if the Austens went up in smoke when comparing them to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s signature.”

This sounded more up Miz’s alley, and you despised conceding that fact.  But you were adamant and angry and little bit buzzed.  Plus, you hadn’t gotten into a real argument with Seth in a few days.

“Miz didn’t _let_ the thief steal anything,” you shook your empty glass in Seth’s face.  The ice clanked irritably.  “He’s a good actor, but not that good.  He was pissed that his precious security was fooled.  Our thief robbed him blind.  Those Austens are gone.  Miz might have got the insurance money but he damn well wasn’t happy about it.”

Seth took the glass from you before you could shake it again. Rather than falling into your trap, however, he tipped his head to the side, eyes once more searching.  “You _are_ romanticizing this guy.”

Surprisingly, his tone wasn’t snide.  He seemed intrigued.  His growing smirk told you he was also endlessly entertained by this realization.  Your eyes swam against the alcohol and your skin tingled as Seth watched you.  “What would you do if you found him trying to take _Gatsby_?”

You sat a little straighter.  “I’d kick his ass,” you growled, offended he’d think anything else of you.  “And then I’d kick your ass for not helping me kick his ass.”

Seth laughed, the nasally cackle grating your ears.  “Who said I wouldn’t help?”

Instead of answering, you just waved a hand at him. 

“What interests you about him?”

“What interests you about why I’m interested in him?” you asked childishly.

“Just answer the question.”

You threw yourself back into your seat again, long uncaring about what your hair looked like at this point.  “I don’t know.  Why shouldn’t I be intrigued by a person stealing rare and beautiful books?  It’s not like I have a personal connection to such a thing.”

Seth rolled his eyes at your sarcasm.  “You’re deflecting.  That’s fine.”  He stood and reached down and offered a hand.  Mildly confused, you took it.  He helped you into your coat and guided you to the front door, ignoring your protests.  Outside the cold air brought a bit of clarity back to your head.  You leaned against the building as Seth flagged down a cab.

“I can drive,” you whined, dreading paying a fare, no matter how insignificant. 

“No,” Seth merely said.  He wrapped an arm around you to tuck you into the backseat.  He plucked your keys from your pocket, and removed the one to your car.  “I’ll drop your car at the shop.”

Taking your house and store keys back from him, you reached out to stop him from closing the door.  “Why don’t you just take me home?”

It was cold enough that you could see the question disappear with your breath on the air; too fast for you to snatch back up.  A thick silence hovered between the two of you for longer than you expected.  You’d anticipated a snarky joke and a bark of laughter.  But then Seth leaned down, face inches from yours.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Your mouth went dry and your cheeks burned and this time you knew your blush was visible in the streetlights.  Your heart pounded in your ears.  Dark eyes pinned you in place and Seth came closer.  “I don’t think you’d like me in the morning,” he murmured in your ear.  “Sleep tight, sweetheart.  Dream of your thief.”

The door closed firmly.

“Where to, Miss?”

You muttered your address at the cab driver.  As he began to pull away from the curb, you spun in your seat to look out the rear window.  You could see Seth milling around the door to the bar.  Red Sweater Dress had reappeared.  The two of them walked back inside together.

You turned back around, head now starting to ache under the barrage of feelings beating around in your chest. 

They didn’t stop you from pondering all the way home exactly why it was you wouldn’t like Seth in the morning.

 

Said morning saw you dragging yourself to the shop with all the enthusiasm of road kill.  You’d honestly debated texting Seth and telling him you were taking a holiday and not to bother showing up.  But that would have been tantamount to admitting you’d been affected by last night, and you weren’t.

At least you had convinced yourself of your apathy until the asshole waltzed through the front door with two coffees, whistling merrily, a pep in his step.  You remembered the woman in the red dress, then, and your headache blasted up a few notches, physical envy nearly doubling you over.

“Little hair of the dog that bit ya,” Seth said, sliding the cup over to you, along with your car key.  He didn’t stop to chat, sailing on by into the office behind you.  You turned and glowered at him through the glass partition, still inked with the name of the old bank.  Just another thing you could afford to change if you deposited Miz’s check.

“Oh, bite me,” you hollered back at him.  He winked at you and snapped his teeth.  You spun away from him, nearly slipping from the stool.  His infernal laughter was only mildly muffled by the barrier.

The day wore on minute by minute, it seemed.  The occasional customer trickled in, with a decent little surge just after the lunch hour.  The students were slowly going back home for Thanksgiving break, and you knew business was about to drop flat until the December mad rush.

You were manning the register, ignoring Seth bustling around the store, trying to coax you into discussion.  You were looking forward to the coming plummet, honestly.  You could close up early tomorrow, the day before Thanksgiving, and keep closed until Saturday.  No black Friday bullshit for you.  It was going to be a day of sweatpants instead of skirts and blouses, of trash television instead of intellectual pursuits.  The perfect way to rest up before the avalanche of students looking for last minute gifts before going home for the more permanent winter break.

Seth appeared to be in a similar state of mind.  He’d stopped trying to trick and goad you into book debates and was instead hiding in the front corner reading.  You didn’t feel like admonishing him for not helping the little old lady a few aisles over, because it meant you couldn’t hear him.  Or see him.  You went to assist the woman instead, recommending a few of your favorite young adult books.

“Thank you so much,” she babbled happily while you rang her up.  “It’s been getting harder to shop for my granddaughter now that she’s a teen.  I’m just glad she likes to read.”

“I understand,” you smiled at her, handing her the bag.  “I hope she likes your selections.  They’re some of my favorite books of all time.”

The lady thanked you again and left.  Seth sidled up to the counter. 

“You know there’s no substance to those books.”

You sighed, but didn’t waste a reply on the statement.  You began organizing the desk for the fifteenth time that day.

“It’s all just romantic platitudes.  Teens don’t just find The One while on hare-brained adventures.”

You slammed a clipboard down, garnering looks from a couple up front.  “You are such a jackass, I swear,” you snarled quietly.  “If you think that’s all young adult fiction is, you are sadly misinformed and way out of date, dude.”

You whisked around him to start putting unwanted books back on the shelves.  He followed you, as you knew he would.  You didn’t let him speak.

“For someone who likes to tout stepping beyond your preferred genre, you like to rag on peoples’ choices if they don’t align with your own pretentious bullshit.”

“Christ, sweetheart, what’s crawled up your ass?”

“Do not call me sweetheart,” you snapped.   The bell jingled, signaling the swift exit of the last two customers in the store.  You whipped back around to glare at him.  “Great job!”  You shoved past him.

“Now hold up,” he growled at your back.  “What the fuck is your problem?”

You ignored him.  Which, in hindsight, wasn’t the best decision.

A strong hand wrapped around your arm and pulled.  Your back hit the desk, and you struggled to escape Seth’s grip.  “Get off me.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell your deal is?  You’re being a Grade A bitch.”

“Look who’s talking, dick,” you tried pulling away from him again, but he held on tighter.

You stopped moving.  The two of you were breathing hard and glaring hatefully at each other.  Seth’s body held yours in place against the front of the register desk.  Your free arm was thrown back to keep yourself from falling flat on the table top.  He loomed over you, and time seemed to freeze; your focus narrowing to a pinpoint.  Heated brown eyes dropped to your lips and bounced back to your eyes.  You own gaze mimicked this yo-yo effect, flickering to his parted lips.  He shifted his hips.

You sucked in a sharp breath when the bell rang.

“Oh, sorry, are we interrupting?”

The couple that lingered by the door looked rightly embarrassed, though you knew you were the true poster child for blushing humiliation.  Seth was smoothness personified.  Grabbing a book from somewhere behind you, he spun around with an easy grin erasing the hungry look he’d shown only moments earlier.

“Not at all,” he assured them, holding the book up.  “Shakespeare lines, ya know?  What can I help you all with?”

The mollified couple happily preoccupied, you slunk into the break room to decompress.  You gulped from your water bottle, thoughts so frantic they seemed white noise in your ears.  

_What the actual hell?_

_You were playing with fire.  Serious, against policy fire._

_You own the store, change the policy._

_You really ought to get rid of him.  He’s bad for your health._

_Close up early and fuck him all over the store._

You groaned and practically thrust your whole body into the refrigerator to cool down.  You couldn’t let this continue.  You had to do something, or he was going to eat you alive.  You bit your lip at the prospect, an image of his gloves flashing across your mind’s eye.

“Fuck,” you moaned.

“Hey.”

You spun around; clutching your water bottle before you like it might be used as a weapon.  Seth eyed you warily.

“Yes?”  You averted your eyes to the space beyond his shoulder.

“I’m going to head out.  It’s starting to snow and I have dinner plans.”

Red Dress.

“Sounds good,” you replied mechanically.  You crinkled the plastic container in your hand.  Seth didn’t move.

“I’m going to take a sick day tomorrow, too,” he added after a beat.

“That’s fine.  I close early anyway.”

“I figured you’d be okay with it.”

You nodded, still unable to look at him. 

“See you Saturday?”

You glanced at him quickly and then away again.  “Yep.  Enjoy your time off.”

“Right.”  He stood silently again, as if waiting for you to say more.  As if waiting for you to tell him not to bother coming back ever again.  You were waiting for the words to come, too, but they wouldn’t.

He sighed, in relief or defeat you couldn’t tell.  “Enjoy your holiday.”

No smug comment or nickname followed the farewell.  You waited until he was completely gone before shakily ringing up the customers and finishing last minute tasks around the shop. 

It was a relief to lock the door and leave the books behind.

 

Wednesday was a blessed blur of movement.  It left very little time for you to dwell over you latest altercation with Seth.  A surprising amount of people came in to shop; presumably the families of students who’d come to take their kids home for the holiday break.  You welcomed the crowds, even if they were a little miffed at you for being the only employee working. 

You closed at four instead of the usual six, waving at the last family as they made their way up the sidewalk.  Once the sign was flipped, you sighed contentedly.  Holiday. 

Being from a particular kind of family, you’d all agreed to see each other only rarely.  It was truly best for all concerned.  Thanksgiving therefore was your holiday to celebrate as you wished.  You didn’t even really mind that that included leftover pizza from the day before rather than turkey and stuffing.  Your parents got Christmas out of you—a trying day of the year.  So you didn’t begrudge the lack of traditional Thanksgiving cuisine too badly.

Even so, you felt incongruently lonely and agitated this year.  The store and _Gatsby_ shadowed you distractingly.  You couldn’t even get into one of your favorite books to settle down.  Your eyes flicked to Miz’s check resting on your nightstand.  You’d brought it home with you to give it more, uninterrupted consideration. 

The little number filled you with awe and dread in equal measure.  It hurt your soul to think of handing _Gatsby_ over to that man.  He’d hide it away and you’d never see it again.  But you’d see him again, and he’d never let you hear the end of how he’d single handedly saved your shop.

But the _shop_ …

Growling, you shoved the book you’d been trying to read away from you and stood.  It was stupidly late, and it was snowing.  But you couldn’t shake your nerves.  There was only one place to go.

 

The shop was dark and quiet in the snowfall.  The street was empty; asleep in the after-midnight hour.

You went around to the back door so that you could deactivate the alarm, only to find that it wasn’t set.

You stared at it in confusion.  You had set it when you left Wednesday afternoon.  You had.  You always did. 

And then you heard a noise down the short hallway.

 _The thief_ , was your immediate thought.  That and nothing more.  You bent into a minor crouch, as if that would make you stealthier.  It certainly didn’t make you smarter.  The obvious hadn’t registered in your agitation.

You were going to catch the famous book thief before he made off with _your Gatsby_.  And part of you hoped it was Miz so you could lay violent hands on him without ending up in jail.

Your safety never even crossed your mind as you crept to the doorway of the rare book room.  Your blood was up and you were looking for a fight.

You steeled yourself and peered around the door jamb.  A dark figure crouched at the foot of the pedestal.  The lock box was open.  The book was not in evidence. 

And yet the empty space where _Gatsby_ always laid barely fazed you.  Instead, you stared openly at the figure fiddling with a bag on the ground. 

How often had you watched those shoulders hunched over your books?  How often had you watched those hands touch and hold and care for your books?  _Your thief_ … 

You felt your outrage boil over.  You stepped into the doorway and waited.

He slid the bag he’d been stowing Gatsby in to his side and started gathering up his lock picking tools.  You felt like a coil.  You ran the risk of falling on top of the bag, but your ears were ringing and your eyes were burning and god did you want to fight now.

He didn’t have time to react before you were crashing into him.  He grunted and spun with your impact.  The two of you fell away from the bag and rolled across the floor.  You were vaguely aware of screaming obscenities at him.  You felt hands grasping at your wrists and twisted away, snarling things you weren’t even sure made sense.  He didn’t say a word.

He ended up on top, of course.  He was the one with the strength, agility, and training.  Your weak ass never had a chance despite your righteous anger.  This only made your madder.

“You bastard,” you spat and writhed beneath him, eyes flicking over to his pack.  You felt tears threatening.  He was taking your book.  “You fucking sneak.  Was this it all along?  You’re taking my _Gatsby_.”  Your words garbled together the more furious you became.  Questions, insults, and accusations flew at the man straddling you, until you had to stop and suck in breath.

His hands pinned your wrists to the floor on either side of your head.  He was barely winded.  He just looked down at you with those fucking eyes, hidden behind hair that had become loose in your tussle. 

“You done?” he asked.

You let out a broken scream of frustration and struggled harder.

“Knock it off,” he snapped.  He slid off of you and hauled you to your feet.  You leapt back from him, but your eyes fell to the bag still on the ground where he’d left it.  Seth saw this and stepped between you and it.

“Is this why you took the fucking job?” you asked, ashamed at the hurt that bled into the accusation.  Seth winced, and looked down at his feet, the answer written in that motion.  You clamped your teeth shut to keep another howl from bubbling up. 

He tentatively stepped forward, but stopped when you backed away from him.  He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.  “I didn’t plan on stealing it tonight,” he rasped.  He looked up at you.  “I was here to steal the check.”

Your shoulders dropped an inch.  “Miz’s check.”

Seth nodded, body relaxing somewhat.  He still stood in your way of the bag.  “I figured if I got rid of that I’d eventually convince you he’s a waste of time.”  He scowled at you then.  “But the check wasn’t in the safe, and I knew you’d taken it home.  So.”  He swung an arm down at the bag.

You couldn’t stop glaring at him.

“You can’t give it to him,” he insisted.

“So, you thought you’d fucking steal it from me?  To hoard with all the other books you’ve stolen.  With the Austens?”  You didn’t need an affirmation to know you were right.  The thief you’d been following in the news for months stood before you; had always stood before you.  Had worked for you.  You clenched your fists.  “What would I have done then, Rollins?  I’d have nothing to keep the shop afloat.”

He was looking at his feet again.  He had nothing to say.

You couldn’t help the next question that you asked.  It burned your guts to ask it.  You hated yourself so thoroughly.  “Were you just going to disappear?”

Seth’s body tightened.  He glared at you.  “I’ve done it before,” he growled.  “You wouldn’t have been able to find me, either.  Even with police.”  You believed him.  He stepped forward again, and this time you didn’t move. 

“You’d be glad to be rid of me,” he said softly; purposefully.

“You’re fucking right I would be.”

He smiled at that.  A small, closed-mouth sneer.  He shook his head.  “You were right.  Miz doesn’t deserve this book.”

“And you do?”

“You know I know how to take care of it.”

Your eyes dropped to his gloved hands, and then shot back to his face.  His were raking over you, as if memorizing you before he vanished from your life, taking a huge piece of it with him.  You looked at the bag on the floor again, and then to Seth.  A thought blooming in your mind.  If this was the last time you were going to see him, if this was the last chance you were going to have…

He couldn’t have _Gatsby_.  It was yours.  But he could have you.  And you could damn well take a slice of him for yourself.

You launched at him, and once again he spun with you. This time you crashed against the wall of the room, your breath punching out of you with the impact.  You nearly laughed at his expression.  He thought you were trying to fight him again.  You kind of were. 

His confusion vanished the second your mouth found his.  So, goddamned _hungry,_ you’d been over the last six months.  Wanting him to touch you, nearly evaporating whenever he occasionally did.  You were very pleased to find him just as starved as you’d been.  His teeth caught your lip and you groaned.  His tongue slid on yours and you had to strive not to go limp in his grasp. 

Your hands gripped his shoulders through his thin black shirt.  You gasped as he pressed against you, and your nails bit into his shoulders.  They tensed beneath your grip, and he sucked in breath; let it escape in hiss.

“Vicious.”

You dug your claws in deeper.  And one of his hands found your hair and pulled.  Hard.

A little cry of surprise and pain came out of you.  Your head was on an angle now.  Your throat bared.  His lips were unexpectedly soft on your skin after his yank on your scalp.  A gasp popped out of your mouth as he added his tongue and set to work.  Tiny nips and kisses peppered over your pulse and jaw, punctuated by long, hatefully slow licks.  He planned on marking you up, if you were making sense of what was happening.  Like a calling card.

You groaned, legs beginning to buckle.  Seth felt you start to sag, and clucked his tongue.  He grabbed your thighs and heaved you upward.  Your legs went around his waist, and your hips grinded against his.  He returned the favor.  You removed your fingers from his shoulders and redirected his mouth to yours.  Teeth clicked.

Seth pulled you from the wall, and you could do nothing but cling to him as he left the room and carried you…where?

A crash of books and the sound of fluttering paper told you that you’d come to perch on the cash register desk.  The free bookmarks and your assorted best sellers skidded across the floor, but for once you didn’t care in the least.  You’d remembered his gloves. 

His hands had started roving teasingly under your shirt.  But had vanished quickly.  You opened your eyes.  In the dim streetlight filtering in, you could see him starting to take one of the gloves off with his teeth.  A pathetic whimper had him stopping, black eyes snapping to yours. 

You were frozen like that for a few seconds.  Staring at each other.  He let the fingertip of his glove slip from his mouth.  Amusement flickered in his gaze, which dropped to his glove, and then snaked back to yours.  He pulled the glove back on.  You swallowed as you watched.  He chuckled.  His lips came to your ear as hands started sliding up over your thighs. 

“How long have you wanted this?” he asked.  Fingers curled over the waistband of your jeans.  You shuddered at the hint of the leather and Seth’s lips.  You sighed, hips shifting as he loosened your belt.  A thumb ran beneath your belly button.  Your nails were once more trying to burrow into his shoulders.  And he laughed again.

“Is this why you liked to watch me clean the books, sweetheart?”  Your jeans were being dragged down your legs, now.  Gloves stroking your thighs.  You closed your eyes and swallowed hard.  “How many times did I touch you like this in that pretty little head of yours?”

You grunted as his hands went up under your shirt.  Teeth teased your earlobe.  “Did you dream of closing the shop while I was back there?  Of begging for a turn?”

He pulled back from you and your eyes flashed open.  His smirk was easily recognizable in the darkness.  “Is that why you’re always such a tight ass?”  He caught your hands as you moved to shove him or slap him or drag him back to you.  “You could’ve just asked.  Can’t say I didn’t dream the same thing.”

You gasped, swear dying on your tongue, as his free fingers ghosted over your folds.  You whined, forehead dropping to his shoulder.  You bit him through his shirt.  You were rewarded with a shudder and a choked laugh.

“It was my fault, really,” he sneered, thumb running in feathery circles over your clit.  You arched the best you could.  Aching for him to touch you harder.  “I should have taken you home the other night.”

His hands left you, and gripped your waist, pulling you to the edge of the desk.  In the dark, disoriented, you couldn’t tell where he’d gone.  Until his tongue was on you.  In you.  His mouth hot and his beard scratching your inner thighs.   The sound out of your mouth was explosive, and even with the lights popping behind your lids, you could feel him smirking into your wetness. 

You gripped his hair in your hands, white knuckle tight.  He moaned as he devoured you.  You draped one leg over his shoulder, pulling him closer, urging him by moving your hips against his face.   Heat spread through your body, and you felt a tremor low in your belly.  You gulped down air.  “Seth,” you whined, hands dropping to his biceps.  You fisted his sleeves. 

“Say please.”

Anger licked your spine along with desire.

“Please, asshole.”

He drew back and smiled benignly at you.  You glared down at him, and shivered under his hands when he rubbed his thumbs across your thighs.  You huffed and tugged at his sleeves. 

Seth shocked you by rising to his feet and whisking his shirt off in one liquid movement.  Your eyes tried to be everywhere at once.  And then your hands. 

His skin was so warm, flushed with excitement.  You snarled silently and sought his mouth again.  He pulled you flush to him, and you dragged your nails down the skin of his back.  The ragged sigh in you ear was the most lethal sound you’d ever heard.   You struggled to regain your composure.  You couldn’t just leave physical marks.  You had to leave them on his ego.

“The desk in the office is bigger,” you panted into his shoulder.  You bit it again, and swept your tongue over the skin.  You were hauled off the desk and barely found your balance before you were being dragged into the room. 

Seth had you backed into the huge old bank desk in seconds, tearing your shirt up over your head.  You got one of your hands down his pants and wrapped around his cock.  You licked at his throat as he pumped his hips into your grasp.  You grinned when he moaned.  Your thief was _noisy_.

This information in the palm of your hand, you stroked him fast and hard.  His sounds lent images of him on his back, you riding him into the floor. He braced his hands on the desk and rocked against you.  Still groaning so prettily.  “I fucking hate you,” he whispered against your ear.

 _Just wait_ , you thought.  You couldn’t let it end here.  It wasn’t a part of the plan.  And you were much too needy.

You removed your hand and pushed at his pants.  “The feelings mutual,” you snapped.  He grinned and helped.  

You laid back across the desk, making it very clear how you wanted it.  Leather clad hands glided up your stomach, over your breasts and you arched.  Your hands went to his wrists and you shimmied your hips.

“I wanted to do this Tuesday,” he smirked down at you.  Ever the fucking instigator.

“Shut up and fuck me, Rollins.”

He squeezed your sides roughly and slid into you with ease.  You both got a little loud at that.  You sighed as he pulled out, and you bit your lip as he sank back in.  Your hands went over his shoulders and you rocked against him.  “Harder,” you demanded. 

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed when you squeezed your muscles around him.  He snapped his hips forward.  His lips rained over your chest and throat. 

One of your hands flew back and gripped the edge of the desk, now.  You knew you wouldn’t last much longer.  You gasped when he lifted one of your legs up and drove deep into you.  Your eyes fluttered shut and the word “please” slipped from your lips.

Seth didn’t say a word.  Just thrust into you recklessly.  Chasing the high you were gaining on yourself.  Finally, all the rage and provocation you’d felt over him was coming to a boil.  It felt dirty and wrong and so fucking good.

“Seth.”  It was a strangled warning.  He snarled in reply, his own eyes closed.  His shoulders were straining deliciously.  You stomach flipped.  “Seth.”  A little louder this time.  More urgent.  You felt him hit your sweet spot.  Your hands came to his arms.  Your legs shook. 

“Gonna come on me, sweetheart?”  His voice was hoarse.  You whimpered.  Felt a glove stroke over your throat as he fucked you. 

It was a match being struck in a dark, dark room.  His hand clamped over your mouth as you came, shaking beneath him.  Curses spilled from his mouth as he followed you, body tightening like a bow string.

The two of you remained still, breathing heavily.  Seth’s hands had come to the desktop on either side of you, and his arms trembled.  You slowly rose to a sitting position, causing him to shift.  He did not back completely away.  You pressed your face into his shoulder.  You had to give yourself a minute.  How long had it been since you’d laid down across the desk?   Two minutes?  Three?  It hadn’t been long.  You blushed, feeling his sweat slicked skin under your cheek.  His breathing was evening out.  A hand skimmed your side gently before he stepped back.  An unsurprising look of arrogance on his face.

You slid off the desk, not speaking.  You collected your clothes, still counting time.  You heard him shuffle after you, seeking his own garments.  He dressed behind you.  The tension was rising again, but this time it was more familiar.  Like Seth was about to throw a snide comment at you, and you’d flip him the bird.  You swallowed against your nerves.

You heard him inhale to speak, when red and blue lights flashed outside the front windows of the shop.  You looked over your shoulder at him.

He was looking out the window, and then at you.  His mouth was open, but then it closed and his head canted to the side.  An impressed little smile curved his lips.

“The bank desk,” he said, eyebrows arching.

You looked away for a moment.  The bank desk.  You hadn’t lied to Miz when you’d said the shop was still equipped with security measures from its days as a bank.  That included the desk, with a silent alarm button under the bottom edge.  It buzzed the police station ten minutes away.  They were at the door now.

You opened it and your two friends, Sherriff Breeze and Deputy Dango sauntered into the room.  You flicked a switch and the lights came on. 

“Howdy,” Dango tipped his hat as you.  You smiled at him.  Tyler was looking at Seth. 

“What’s going on here?” he asked.  His eyes trailed over the mess on the floor.  It was more widespread than you’d thought.  You tried not to redden.  Seth leaned against the register desk, arms crossed, perfectly at ease.

“Our book thief, gentlemen,” you waved an arm at Seth.  The two officers were startled.  “You’ll find _Gatsby_ in a bag in the back.  I surprised him as he was about to steal it.”

No one spoke for a time.  And then Dango looked around the shop.

“Did he hurt you?”

You didn’t look at Seth.  You could feel him well enough.  Both his eyes and the traces of his teeth on your neck.  You bit the inside of your cheek.  “There was a struggle,” you said.  Seth shifted behind you. 

Tyler whistled.  “Looks like it was a good one.”

You glanced at Seth.  He cocked an eyebrow.  You said to Tyler, “Best one I’ve ever had.”

The thief behind you chuckled.

It only took a few minutes for your friends to have the cuffs on your ex-employee.  You watched them whisk him out of the room and into the back of their car.  He looked at you from the window, and you blew him a kiss.  He laughed, and snapped his teeth.

You told Breeze and Dango you’d follow them to the station shortly for the official charges.  You wanted to stow _Gatsby_ away properly before closing.  They nodded and drove off.

Storing Gatsby was easy enough.  You locked the case and stared at the book.  You were going to have to find someone new to treat it.  Or learn it yourself.  Or sell out to Miz.  You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat.  You kicked the bag at your feet across the floor.  “Son of a bitch.”

 

At the station, you sat in a room for a long time as Breeze and Dango filed in and out.  You gave your statement.  Told them all about Seth’s time under your employment.  And waited some more.  Eventually, you dozed.

It was nearly four in the morning when Dango stumbled into the room, looking around, frazzled.  You blinked blearily at him.  “What’s going on?  Can I leave yet?”

“Um,” he said in his throaty voice.  He left, but came right back in.  “Has the perp been in here?”

You shot to your feet.  “Excuse me?”

Breeze appeared at Dango’s shoulder.  “Negative on the sweep.  He’s gone.”

“WHAT?”  You squeezed passed them into the hallway. 

“He, uh.  Gave us the slip.”

You stared at your two friends, wide eyed, blinking.  Your mouth was hanging open.  “He’s gone?”

When they nodded, you just laughed.  And laughed.  You shook you head, and, still laughing, grabbed your coat and keys and left.  They told you it wasn’t safe.  That he might be waiting for you somewhere.  You only giggled harder and got in your car. 

When you got to your apartment, you threw yourself on your bed.  It was Black Friday.  You didn’t have to deal with such bullshit.  The shop was closed.  And would stay that way until you felt your axis shift back to normal.  You closed your eyes. 

The room wasn’t right.  Or maybe you weren’t.  You snorted.  You definitely weren’t.  You sat up and flipped on your desk light.  A small box sat on top of it.  Miz’s check, torn in half, sat on top of the box.  You threw the check away, barely giving it a thought.  You lifted the lid.

A note lay on top.

 _Don’t use the tool’s money.  I know a guy who loves Jane Austen.  Keep your_ Gatsby.  _I’ll see you around, babe._

A new check for 30k was in the box.  The name signed was a Tyler Black. 

And beneath the check, a pair of black leather gloves and a set of handcuffs. 

“ _Fucker_.”


End file.
